The Hundredth Story
by Bad Mum
Summary: So I've made it to 100 Harry Potter stories and this is a celebration of that fact.  100 drabbles and oneshots based on a list of my favourite characters and pairings  and a few surprises and prompts issued by the members of the Teachers' Lounge.
1. I

_So I've made it to one hundred Harry Potter stories, and I thought the hundredth should be something special. In a moment of madness, I mentioned this at The Teachers' Lounge Forum. __I_ _said:_ "My own idea was to write 100 drabbles about different characters/pairings and ask people for a prompt for each chapter without revealing who it would be about." _Before I knew it, a thread was started, and the other denizens of the Lounge were plying me with prompts._

_So, this will be a series of drabbles and short oneshots based on the prompts from my friends at the Teachers' Lounge and the character list I came up with. If you're looking for a balanced every character story, forget it. This is a celebration, and I'm celebrating my favourite characters and pairings. So there will be an overabandance of Weasleys here! Having said that, I've recently got over my "thing" about all my stories having to agree with each other, so some of these will not fit in with my other stories. There might be some pairings I've never written before; there might even be one I swore I'd never write..."_

_As always, anything you recognise belongs to the wonderful JKR, to whom be undying gratitude for the wonderful world she has given us to play in._

_The first prompt is from Sara Winters: "After a character's death (in canon), his/her will reveals something surprising to a younger character. And the character I had down on my list was Ron. Hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

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It is odd to be back at home, odder still to be in his own room. He supposes he will be sharing it with Harry as usual, but right now Harry is who knows where with Ginny. Ron is glad of it. He needs some time - even if it is only five minutes - to be alone. He plumps down on the bed and leans back against the wall, closing his eyes and giving a long sigh. He wills himself not to think, not to feel, just to be.

Something crackles under his hand. He tries to ignore it, but he can't. He groans, opens his eyes and sits up, scrabbling under the lurid orange bedcover to see what is there. He pulls out a piece of parchment, folded and sealed, with his own name on it. As he holds it up, frowning, more words appear beneath his name.

_"Only to be opened if I'm dead and gone, and if George isn't. Don't worry Ickle Ronniekins, you won't be able to open this if that's not the case, so don't bother trying. Fred."_

Ron gapes at it. Fred's spiky untidy writing is startlingly familiar, startlingly normal. Almost without thinking, he breaks the seal and begins to read.

_"So if you're reading this, I guess I bought it, and that George is still around, which is tough on him. I need you to do something for me, Ron. Dead straight, no kidding. Hear me out._

_I need you to look after George for me, Ron._

_Yeah, you read that right. It needs to be you, Ron. The others, well... Bill will do the right thing because that's his way, but he has Fleur and no doubt they'll make us uncles before long; Charlie understands us better than most, but you know him and his dragons - he won't have time for anything else; Percy - well, no comment; Ginny's a dear, but she's too young and George won't let his little sister look after him. Mum and Dad will try, but they'll have their own troubles and Mum never understood about the shop. So that leaves you._

_You have to look after George. You have to make him keep on with the shop. He has to do that, or everything we've fought for is nonsense. It was our dream, and what's the point of dreams if a little thing like death gets in the way of them? I know it's a lot to ask, but you're our brother, and I suppose that's what family's for._

_You may not believe it, given the way we've treated you sometimes (sorry), but I trust you, Ron. More to the point, so does George. He'll be okay in the end, but he'll need a hand for a while._

_Do it for me, Ronniekins._

_Love (I guess), your brother Fred_

Ron read to the end, heaved a deep breath and read it again. It _was_ a lot to ask. He had his own plans - a break for a while; Auror training if they'd have him; maybe, maybe a future with Hermione. Looking after George wasn't going to be a part time thing. The Auror training at least would have to go.

But Fred was relying on him. He trusted him, and so did George. That, in itself was a revelation to Ron. He didn't really have a choice.

He walked to the window, opened it and looked out over the garden and the orchard. It was a clear night.

"I'll do it, Fred," he said into the night. "At least I'll try."

Somewhere an owl hooted and a fox called.

Ron sighed, lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. He was fast asleep by the time Harry came in.


	2. II

_Chapter II - character Harry Potter, and a prompt from lightblue-Nymphadora: "Character decides to move into their first house. They find _ while cleaning out the attic."_

**II**

No one else really understood why he had bought the tiny cottage. Number 12 Grimmauld Place was his; he could have lived there if he wanted to. Molly and Arthur Weasley had told him over and over that he had a home with them for as long as he wanted. Failing that, they had urged him to move somewhere near to them. He was family after all. And there were numerous people who would have been happy to share a house or a flat with him. Ron was living over the shop with George, and Hermione and Ginny were back at Hogwarts, but there were plenty of others.

But that wasn't what Harry wanted. He wanted a place of his own. He wanted it in Godric's Hollow. And he did not want to share it with anyone. After all that he had been through he just wanted time and space to come to terms with events. He also wanted to live in Godric's Hollow, where his parents had been happy and where he had been born.

The cottage was ideal. Two bedrooms (so there was room for friends to come and stay - he wasn't cutting himself off by any means); a cosy lounge; a dining kitchen and a bathroom. Plus a comfortable sized garden out the back. Harry loved it at first sight, and bought it the very same day.

Now, he had been living here a fortnight and was more or less settled. The cottage was furnished, the kitchen cupboards were well-stocked (thanks largely to Molly Weasley) and it was beginning to feel like home. The only part of the cottage he had not thoroughly explored was the attic, and he had decided that that was his task for this weekend. He climbed up carefully and looked around. There were a couple of old trunks, no doubt left by previous owners, a broken wardrobe, and an old rocking horse that looked sad and lonely. Harry sat down on one of the trunks and looked about him, lighting his wand to see into the far corners of the attic.

He jumped as he saw a pair of bright green eyes looking back at him from the furthest corner, and saw a flash of movement as something ran behind the wardrobe.

"What the...?" Harry made a dive for where he had seen the movement, and came face to face with a small black cat, little more than a kitten, who was eying him warily.

"Where did you come from?" he asked gently, feeling himself beginning to smile and reaching out a hand to the little cat. The cat approached him cautiously. It was very thin. Harry wondered how long it had been there. He reached out his hands and picked it up carefully, stroking its head and murmuring to it. It mewed and then began to purr.

Harry had never had much to do with cats - apart from Crookshanks and Mrs Norris, neither of whom could be called lovable animals - but there was something about this young one that called out to him. He could not have an owl again yet; not so soon after losing Hedwig, but he had missed having a pet. Tucking the cat inside his jumper, he descended the ladder to the landing.

"Shall we find you something to eat?" he asked, and the cat mewed again.

It would be good to have company in the cottage.


	3. III, IV, V

_Three shorter ones, with my choice of characters, and one-word prompts from Sara._

**III**

_(Asparagus – Bill and Fleur)_

"You 'ave never tasted asparagus?" Fleur sounded so astonished it was as if she had just found out that he had never eaten bread or potatoes.

"No," he repeated patiently. "There were seven of us, Fleur. It's expensive."

"But not since you left 'ome?"

He shook his head. "Sorry," he said. "Is it that big a deal? I mean, you can overlook the getting you involved in a war, and the bitten by a werewolf thing, but our relationship is going to founder over my lack of experience of a vegetable?"

Fleur glared at him. "Do not laugh at me, Bill," she ordered. "This is something that must be put right as soon as possible. I am going shopping."

With that she was gone, her bright hair whipping out behind her. Bill heard the front door bang behind her.

He hoped to Godric he liked asparagus once he had tasted it.

He had a dreadful feeling that his marriage might depend upon it.

**IV**

_(Misfire - Colin Creevey)_

"is it like a gun?" Dennis gazes with awe at the wand lying in its box in the middle of Colin's bed.

Colin is too excited to keep still, bouncing from his bed to the chair to the windowsill, picking up spellbooks and robes and potion bottles. He is a wizard! Today he went shopping in the most magical street in the world, and next week - only seven more days - he will be going to a magical school. He laughs out loud at his brother's question.

"Of course it isn't like a gun, you idiot! It's a wand. For doing magic, not for killing people."

He lunges over to the bed and picks it up, giving it an extravagant flourish in his brother's general direction. There is an enormous bang, a shower of red and gold sparks, and Dennis yelps and jumps backwards.

"Are you sure?" he asks doubtfully.

**V**

_(Deluded – Fabian Prewett and Dorcas Meadowes)_

"You're mad, Fabian Prewett!" Dorcas told him, but she was laughing as she said it.

He adopted an air of wounded innocence. "Mad? Me? I'm as sane as they come, love. No idea what you're talking about. None at all."

"Idiot boy!" She punched him lightly on the arm and shoved past him to plump herself down on the old settee. "Merlin, I'm tired. I'm too old for all this war nonsense."

Fabian sits down beside her and draws her close, kissing her forehead.

"You're not old. You're my girl, my beautiful girl. I told you."

"And I told you you were mad, Fabe. I'm nearly five years older than you. Old and worn out and tired."

He shook his head and kissed her gently on the lips. "If I'm deluded, I like it that way," he murmured. "Don't spoil my illusions, beautiful girl."


	4. VI, VII

_Two more with prompts from Sara._

**VI**

_(Chase – Neville)_

His breath catches in his throat. He cannot run any more, it is a physical impossibility. But he must, he must. Legs keep pumping, chest is heaving, blood is hammering in his head. Keep going. Keep going.

Behind him - close, too close - he can hear Alecto Carrow's wheezy laughter.

"You can run, but you can't hide, little one! I'll get you in the end."

Feet are pounding behind Neville. Carrow's Slytherin bully-boys are closing in. They are far too close. Neville has first-hand experience of the damage they can inflict. He has to get away. He leans against a wall gasping, looking desperately for an escape, a way out. There is none. They are going to get him.

Then, behind him, a tapestry moves, a voice hisses.

"Neville! In here!"

Without conscious thought, Neville moves towards the unknown voice and the hiding place. Carrow's minions pass the place not twenty seconds later. For now at least he is safe.

**VII**

_(Caught -Michael Corner, Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein)_

"Don't be stupid, of course we can't let the Puffs beat us!" Michael said, his voice tinged with utter scorn.

"Yeah, are you a Ravenclaw or a mouse?" Terry put in, equally indignantly.

Anthony shook his head. "I'm merely being realistic," he insisted. "They've got a week's head start on the project, and McGonagall isn't going to give us an extension due to a little thing like us all being in the hospital wing when it was given out. We've got thirty six hours or thereabouts to produce five feet of parchment on advanced Transfiguration and its relationship to probability theory and the development of Arithmancy in the twentieth century. We simply don't have time to do enough research to get a better mark than Hannah, Zacariah and Ernie. They might be Puffs, but they know their stuff." He uttered the last sentence grudgingly.

Michael rolled his eyes and lifted his hands in mock horror. "Thirty six hours, and he says we haven't got time!" he said to Terry. "Has the man never heard of night-time research?"

"The very best sort," Terry deadpanned. "Thirty six hours will be more than we need. The Library at midnight?"

Michael shook his head. "Better make it one o'clock. Madame Pince is a late bird, and there's always Filch. But if we go that late we won't get caught." He raised his eyebrows at Anthony. "You up for this?"

But the answer was obvious from the sparkle in his friend's eyes.

"Up for it? Of course I am!"

They met in the Library as planned. They were not caught. Their assignment beat the Hufflepuffs' hands down.


	5. VIII

**VIII**

(Confusion – Andromeda)

She sits in front of her mirror and looks at her reflection. Dark eyes and hair, smooth complexion, a wide flexible mouth, slightly hooded eyes. Not pretty, but Black women were not supposed to be pretty. They were supposed to be memorable. Andromeda was not sure she even managed that. Her looks seemed to her - as to her family - a poor reflection of her elder sister's. They proclaimed her a Black, but an inferior one. Narcissa, with her striking blonde hair and slimmer build, was luckier. No one saw her as an imitation of anyone.

Was that why she was doing this? Was she running away because she couldn't measure up to Bellatrix? Was she scared of always being second best, the disappointing daughter? Did she really love Ted or was he just an excuse to get away? Was she using him in the true Black fashion?

She pulled out the ring, hanging on its long chain inside the neck of her robes. It was not big or ostentatious as a ring from a "suitable" lover would be. It was sapphire and diamond, small, but very pretty.

"Like my girl," Ted had said when he presented it to her. With that memory came the image of Ted's face, earnest and loving, floating in her mind and obscuring her own reflection in the mirror. He loved her, and she loved him, and now she knew it. No room for confusion or doubt; she knew what she would do.


	6. IX, X

_A last couple of prompts from Sara... Character choice is mine._

**IX**

_(Tortured – Minerva)_

There had been more tonight, and there would be more tomorrow. Sitting there and letting it happen was the hardest thing that Minerva had ever done. And was she a coward that she sat in her office while she knew the torture was going on and no longer lingered near the dungeons hearing her students scream and cry? She had done that at the beginning of the year, and it nearly broke her.

The students needed her. They needed her to be strong and calm and the Professor McGonagall that she had always been. They needed her help and her knowledge. And she could not be there for them if hearing them scream turned her into a gibbering mess.

But did that make her a coward?

**X**

_(Accident – Dean and Luna)_

Dean shut the lid of his trunk with a bang and looked around the dormitory with a sigh. Would he ever see it again? The way things were going, it looked unlikely that it would be safe for him to come back to Hogwarts next year. For all he knew, his absent father might have been a wizard, but he had no proof one way or the other and no way of finding out. Dean was a realist. He knew that there were people fighting against You-Know-Who, but what chance did they have now, now that Dumbledore was dead? And with them in charge, someone like him, with no known magical ancestry was in trouble.

He left the dormitory, went through the unnaturally quiet common room and headed for the stairs down to the Great Hall. Halfway down the stairs, he collided with someone.

"Whoa! Careful!" he cried, putting out a hand to catch the girl on the step in front of him. Pale hair, a slightly dazed expression, strange strange earrings. Luna Lovegood.

He scarcely knew her. He had never exchanged a word with her as far as he could remember. But now her expression was changing and she was looking at him as if she knew him.

"It's Dean, isn't it?" she asked, and carried on before he even had time to nod. "You look worried, Dean. Don't worry. It will all turn out right in the end."

Then she smiled at him, and continued on her way up the stairs. Dean watched her and found himself smiling. She was crazy of course. But she had made him feel better.


	7. XI, XII

_Prompts from respitechristopher; character choice is mine._

**XI**

_(Arthur – diffident)_

Arthur regarded the beautifully wrapped present on his bed worriedly. It had taken him three attempts to get the wrapping and the frilly bow just so, and even now he was not sure it was right. And the card – had he got the balance right? Monica was his girlfriend, and he cared about her, he really did, but… He didn't want to give the impression that he cared more than he actually did.

Would she be happy with what he had got for her? Girls were difficult. Monica was more difficult than most. He sighed, shouldered his schoolbag and put the present and card carefully in the top. He would give them to her after breakfast, after the owls came with the inevitable shower of birthday greetings for her.

In the great hall, he ignored the sniggers of his best friends Daniel and Carlos, and walked past them to sit opposite Monica. She beamed at him and he smiled nervously back, giving her a muttered, "I'll give you your present after breakfast." Monica smiled back, and Arthur concentrated on his porridge, glad that he hadn't upset Monica yet today.

Looking up briefly to fill his glass with pumpkin juice, he saw Monica's friend Molly Prewett looking over at him, and without thinking about it, he smiled at her.

Monica scowled.

Why did she have to make things so difficult?

Life would be easier with a girl like Molly.

**XII**

_(Tonks and Moody – dismissal)_

She was not going to cry. She was determined about that. Whatever happened, she was going to keep a brave face and save her personal feelings until she was alone.

But she had wanted this so much.

She had worked so hard for it, given up so much, and now it was slipping away.

She was not going to cry.

She took a deep breath and tapped on the door.

"Come in!" commanded a gruff voice, and she obeyed.

The man behind the desk did not look up as she entered, continuing to scribble at the notes in front of him while she stood nervously in front of his desk. When she had reached the point where she felt she would scream if he continued to ignore her, he finally looked up. He regarded her calmly, without smiling, and she tried her hardest to look back at him with equal calm. She was not going to cry.

Eventually, he nodded. "Sit down, girl," he ordered, and she did as she was told.

Alastor Moody smiled grimly at her. "Made a bit of a mess of that, didnt you, lass?" he asked gruffly.

Tonks gulped. "Yes. Yes sir." Why couldn't he just get on and get it over with?

"And now no doubt you're expecting your dismissal, right? We can't have an Auror who trips over her own feet in the field."

Tonks swallowed. "No sir. I realise that. Thank you for giving me the chance to try sir." She rose from her chair. She had to get out of here before she started crying.

He looked up at her, his scarred face fierce and his magical eye whirling. "Sit down!" he shouted. "Did I tell you to get up?"

Tonks blinked and swallowed and subsided once more into her chair. "Sorry sir," she muttered. Why did he have to prolong this?

Moody shuffled the papers in front of him, picked up a quill and scribbled something on one of them and looked at her with something that might have been a smile.

"So..." he said gruffly. "You have the makings of a good Auror, girl. Even if you are the clumsiest recruit it's been my misfortune to meet. But we can deal with that if you're willing to work hard. Are you?"

Tonks didn't quite believe what she was hearing. Was she being given a second chance?

"Well?"

She nodded. "Yes. Yes I am, sir."

"Good," he grunted. "Report to me here at seven thirty tomorrow morning. I'll get you through the retake of Stealth and Tracking if it kills me." He smiled properly then, his scarred face twisting. "Which it very well might."

Tonks began to stammer out her thanks, but he cut her short.

"Go!" he said fiercely. "Go and have a good cry and get it over with, and I'll see you back here tomorrow morning. Goodnight."

And he turned back to his paperwork, ignoring her as completely as if he was totally alone in the room.

Tonks made it out into the street before she began to cry.


	8. XIII, XIV, XV

_"Snark" is a prompt from respitechristopher. The other two prompts come from chelsey, as does the choice of character in chapter XV. Enjoy!_

**XIII**

_(Charlie and Tonks – snark)_

"Careful, can't you?"

"Sorry. It was an accident."

"I'd forgotten how clumsy you were."

"It never used to bother you."

"Who says it bothers me?"

Uncomfortable silence, and they both carry on eating. Eventually Tonks can bear it no longer.

"So, how are the dragons?" she asks.

Charlie jumps, spilling his tea on the table, slopping it over onto Tonks' plate.

"Now who's the clumsy one?" she demands indignantly.

"Me," he admits, holding up his hands, looking sheepish.

Tonks begins to laugh, and he does too.

They have been apart too long.

**XIV**

_Lee - Sunday roast_

Lee had always loved Sunday dinners at the Weasleys'. Mrs Weasley was - quite literally - the best cook in the world, even outdoing his Auntie Gladys, which was saying something. And she didn't believe in small portions, or in only one serving. And, of course, he would be there with Fred and George, who kept the meal lively and - interesting - whoever else might be there.

But today, he wasn't sure he wanted to go. He hadn't seen Mr and Mrs Weasley for a while. Not since Fred's funeral in fact, and that was not a day he wanted to dwell on or remember. And, while he was certain that the food would be as good as ever, and that the twins' mum would be as keen as ever to pile his plate and serve him second helpings, it would not be the same.

It could never be the same again.

He took a deep breath as he pushed the gate open and crossed the familiar yard to the door. Sunday lunch at the Weasleys' couldn't ever be a really bad thing - could it?

**XV**

_Charlie - sickness_

Charlie did not remember ever feeling quite as bad as this.

Well, there had been the time when he had Dragon Pox. And the time when he fell thirty feet off a broom during a scratch Quidditch match in the orchard, and was concussed for nearly a week, despite his mother's magical remedies. And the morning after the night before when he and Tonks and the rest of their year got their NEWT results. And an earlier one when he crashed Bill's year's NEWT party.

In fact, he could think of several mornings after the nights before when he had felt bad, bad, bad.

So what was the difference now?

He groaned and pulled the blanket up over his face, shielding his eyes from the light, which even on a grey November morning in Romania, was more than he could bear.

So what was different about feeling bad this time?

He rolled over onto his side; slowly; carefully. He saw the photo on his bedside table and realised what the difference was.

He missed his mum.


	9. XVI, XVII, XVIII

_Three more prompts from Chelsey._

**XVI**

_(Fabian and Gideon – running)_

"Run!" Gideon yelled, and his brother needed no second telling. The two of them ran as fast as their legs would carry them, until both of them could run no more. They collapsed at the edge of the wood, chests heaving, gasping for breath.

"Is he coming?" Gideon gasped, once he was able to speak, and Fabian struggled to sit up and look back along the lane.

He shook his head. "Nope!" he said with a grin. "I think he gave up."

Gideon cheered and pulled a rosy red apple from his pocket. He polished it on his sleeve, and took a huge bite.

"I don't blame him for being mad really," he observed. "He really does grow better apples than anyone else around here."

xxxxx

"Run!" Fabian yelled, and his brother needed no second telling. The two of them ran as fast as their legs would carry them, until both of them could run no more. They made it to the corner and leant weakly against the wall, chests heaving, gasping for breath.

"Are they coming?" Fabian gasped, once he was able to speak, and Gideon risked a swift look around the corner.

He shook his head. "No!" he said, sounding relieved. "I think we lost them."

Fabian managed a weak grin.

"I don't blame them for being mad really," he observed. "You Know Who won't be pleased at all when he finds out those idiots let us listen in to their meeting."

**XVII**

_(Tonks – love song)_

Tonks scowled at the parchment and scribbled out what she had written.

"Rubbish!" she muttered fiercely. "Utter utter rubbish!"

She stood up and prowled into the kitchen in search of something - preferably something fattening and unsuitable - to eat. She unearthed a helping of apple crumble from the pantry and added a scoop of ice cream and a generous helping of custard. Then she went back and added two more scoops of ice cream.

She made herself a mug of tea - strong, not much milk - with a longing look at the bottle of wine standing by the cooker. As if he knew what she was thinking, the baby kicked.

"Okay, okay, I know," Tonks grumbled, stroking her swollen belly. "I'm sticking to tea, alright?" She glanced out of the window at the full moon and shuddered. She resisted the impulse to check her watch or the kitchen clock. She knew there was a long way to go till morning without doing that.

Still, she would keep her jokingly made promise to Remus and write him a love song to read in the morning when he was recovered enough to do anything.

She groaned as she sat back at the desk and looked at the fresh blank parchment.

Ah well, she thought grimly, as she set down her bowl and took a mouthful of tea, it would make him laugh if nothing else.

So she began to write.

**XVIII**

_(Remus – shield)_

"What you reading, Moony?" James' voice is loud and impossible to ignore. Besides, Remus knows that he will go on and on and _on_ if he pretends that he hasn't heard. So he sighs and holds up his book for the other boy's inspection.

James gives a low whistle. "_Le morte d'Arthur_," he intones gravely. "Gentlemen, we have a scholar amongst us!" Sirius and Peter laugh, and Remus scowls as he returns to his book.

"It's interesting," he mutters, but not with any conviction that he will convince his friends. He knows them too well. He tunes them out and escapes to the world of knights and swords and shields, a world of chivalry.

Despite his absorption, he looks up at a light tread and the hint of the smell of roses.

Lily comes over and perches on James' lap, smiling round at all of them. Remus smiles back at her, but then returns to his book, his shield against the world tonight. To a time and a place where loving your best friend's girl was somehow simpler to deal with. He does not look up again.


	10. XIX, XX

****_Prompts and character choice from chelsey this time._

**XIX**

_(Luna – irreverent)_

"You don't understand, Dean," Luna says patiently. "Things are there whether you believe in them or not. It doesn't matter what you think."

Dean shakes his head and tries not to laugh.

"There's nothing there, Luna," he points out. "It's just an empty cave."

Luna leans back against the rock and lets out a peal of laughter.

"Oh Dean," she says, once her mirth is under control. "You are so funny."

Dean is inclined to be offended. Surely he is the sane one here? But circumstances have thrown them together, and they need to get on with each other. Besides, despite everything, he rather likes this strange girl.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I don't mean to upset you or offend you."

Luna laughs again and hits him gently on the arm.

"Silly boy!" she chides. "You believing or not believing doesn't affect the Snarklebacks in the cave, and it doesn't offend me either. Silly boy!"

Dean smiles as he leans back on the rock next to her. He is rather relieved that she is not angry with him.

**XX**

_(Harry, Hermione – tree, hidden)_

"It won't be here. Not after all this time."

Harry turns and grins at his friend. "Are you trying to convince me or yourself?" he asks, half laughing.

Hermione glares at him, but says nothing, merely continuing forward doggedly across the uneven ground. She stumbles over a hidden tree root, and Harry hurries forward to catch her arm.

"Careful!" he says. "You'll hurt yourself."

Hermione shakes off his hand impatiently. "I'm fine," she insists, although she has turned her ankle and it is throbbing. "You're worse than Ron. I'm pregnant, not incapable!"

"You're eight and a half months pregnant," Harry points out as patiently as he can manage. "And if Ron knew we were on a wild goose chase in the middle of the Forest of Dean in the rain at this time of the morning, he'd kill me slowly and painfully."

Hermione smiles at him. "Which is why he doesn't know," she says. "Anyway, we're here. This is the place. Look!"

She points to an old tree on the edge of the clearing they have just crossed, twisted by the wind and with a dead branch hanging low to the ground. There is a hole in the trunk level with the lowest branches. Harry frowns. To him, it looks like just another old tree; but Hermione seems so certain.

"Are you sure?" he asks, and she nods.

"Of course I am," she says serenely. "Don't you remember camping here? You must do, surely?"

Harry shakes his head uncertainly. "There were so many places," he says. "I can't keep them apart in my mind."

"Well, I can," Hermione says firmly. "This one at least." She runs a hand over her swollen abdomen and her voice sinks to a whisper. "You were asleep and I was on watch. I was… " Her voice cracks, and she swallows. "I was so miserable about Ron, I couldn't help it. I had to do something. So I wrote. A letter."

Harry raises his eyebrows. So this is what this is all about.

"A letter?" he asks, coming over and taking his friend's arm. "To Ron?"

Hermione shakes her head. She is crying now, tears glittering on her cheeks.

"No," she says. "To...to..." She stops, shaking her head, fighting for self-control. "Harry," she pleads, once she manages to speak again. "Get it for me. If it's still there. Please."

She is white as a sheet and looks exhausted. Harry can think of nothing but getting her out of here to somewhere warm and quiet and safe where she can be looked after. But he knows that arguing with her will just waste time. He points his wand at the hole in the tree.

"_Accio_ letter!" he says firmly. Nothing happens. Hermione is crying again.

"It isn't there," she says, in a voice which sounds flat and hopeless. She is rubbing her back as if it hurts her and she looks ill and desperately unhappy.

Harry walks over to her and hugs her. "It still could be," he says. "It might just be stuck or something. I'll look. But first..."

He waves his wand and conjures a chair and a blanket.

"Sit down," he orders. "Ron's going to be mad enough at me for this if it doesn't hurt you and the baby. If it does..."

Hermione obeys without argument, sinking into the chair and pulling the blanket gratefully around her. Harry watches her in silence, and when he is satisfied, looks back to the tree.

"Should've brought a broom," he mutters, half to himself, and Hermione manages a weak giggle.

In the end, it is easy enough. There are enough footholds in the old trunk to enable him to scramble up to the branch near the hole. He settles himself firmly, and leans over.

Hermione is watching him fearfully, her lips forming the word, "Careful!" without making a sound. Harry feels around in the hole, finding dead leaves and bark, but nothing else. He is about to say as much to Hermione when his probing fingers find something else deep, deep in the hole.

With a cry of triumph, he pulls at it and it comes free easily enough. A folded parchment, slightly damp, but with the ink on it still legible. Hermione's writing, and the direction, written in faith and hope all those years ago when all the world seemed hopeless:

_"To our children. Because I have to believe that you will be."_

He smiles down at Hermione, waving the parchment in his hand. Now he understands.


End file.
